


Curb Your Dog

by ThisThatAndTheOther



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bucky honey you've got a big storm coming, M/M, Misunderstandings, Steve's had it up to here, a big joke if you will, meet ugly, this is all just a misunderstanding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2019-09-06 23:43:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16842817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisThatAndTheOther/pseuds/ThisThatAndTheOther
Summary: While looking after his sister's dog, Bucky becomes the unwitting target of Steve's attempt at revenge.Or the one where Steve makes assumptions and Bucky pays the price.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This all came together as a very silly idea while walking my dog.
> 
> Nothing is mine except for any spelling/grammatical errors.

Shit, shit, shit. He’s going to be late. He’s never late. Ever. Except for today. Today, he’s very late.

The digital clock on his oven blinks back at him, mocking him. It reads 8:45, but it’s wrong ever since the time change, and a few power outages, and some random act of God Steve doesn’t really understand. So it’s actually 9:07. He was meant to be at the office at 9 a.m. for a very important meeting with a new client in Midtown, but he’s not there — he’s still in Brooklyn.

It was his phone’s fault. It was supposed to be charging overnight, but the cord didn’t click all the way in when he fumbled for the input late last night, half-hanging out of bed while he groped along the dusty floor for the USB-C charger. He had crab-walked back between the folds of his comforter and fallen asleep smug with foolish confidence that his phone’s alarm would wake him precisely at 6:25. His scuttle into the soft flannel sheets must’ve happened at the same time his handset wasn’t charging, dwindling from four percent to zero in the time it took him to start a good rip of snores.

Fuck his phone! And his stupid shoebox apartment that inexplicably has just the one outlet for his entire bedroom! Who puts an outlet next to the only door, sandwiched between a useless built-in corner bookshelf and a radiator that’s about three sizes too big for his room? A drunk, sadistic architect. And a criminal landlord who purposefully strips convenience and utility from his apartments in equal measure, leaving behind unwired, empty electrical outlets just to rub it in.

He tramples over his fallen towel left abandoned in the doorway of his bathroom, tripping over the folded terry cloth into a pair of underwear before he slips on his dress pants. He’s maneuvering his hands through his blue button-up as he brushes his teeth when it happens.

His phone — now plugged in and has been for the past ten minutes — is ringing.

Steve spits toothpaste into his sink as he slides the green button to talk. “Hey, Sam,” he says, breathlessly, “I’m—”

“Where are you?” Sam whisper-hisses.

“Uh,” he gargles around the remaining paste welling in the space between his cheeks and gums, “Uh, just, coming up the steps of 23rd and 6th. The F was — wow, you wouldn’t believe.”

“You better not be lying to me. Where. Are. You?”

“In my bathroom. I’m so sorry. My phone didn’t charge overnight, and it ran out of batteries, so I didn’t have my alarm. But I’m on my way. I’m dressed, and I just need to grab my folder, and I’m good to go. I’ll take an Uber,” the words tumble out of his mouth as he pulls on a pair of socks and shoves his feet into his one pair of nice shoes. He grabs the folder on his bed, then he barrels through the kitchen and stomps towards his door. His downstairs neighbour is gonna hate him.

“Why would you take an Uber? Traffic’ll be like an hour. I need you here now.”

“I know. I don’t know, I wasn’t thinking. I’ll take the subway. I’ll be there in like 40 minutes, MTA willing. Leaving now,” he says, “Sam, stall them. Tell them — I don’t know, tell them my elderly neighbour fell down the stairs and I’m helping them into an ambulance. Tell them, I’m getting a sickly kitten down from a tree.”

“I’m going to tell them you have explosive diarrhea if you aren’t here in 39 minutes,” Sam threatens before hanging up.

Steve wails tonelessly as he punches his lock button and shoves his phone into his back pocket. He crams his wallet into the other pocket, then he’s reaching for his key ring that he leaves on the hook by the door. He twirls as the door slams behind him, and he locks his door and deadbolt in a flurry of practiced movement.

He dances around his neighbour’s kid’s bike on the landing and hurtles down the steps until he’s through the front door and onto the street. He takes off in a run only not. He’s sliding and half-falling before he catches himself by slamming into the brick wall of his apartment with an _oof_. Looking down, he sees the issue: shit. He’s stepped in a gigantic pile of dog shit. Again.

This is the worst day ever.

~*~

Bucky’s having the best day ever.

Work has been on the slower side, so he’s managed to catch up on everything he needs to do for the week. He's logged onto Slack to make it seem like he’s online doing stuff and checking his email periodically throughout the day in case his boss sends him an urgent message. As a software engineer at a not-so-small-anymore startup, he can work from home. He can also choose his hours, but he works during the day most Mondays to Fridays unless something comes up, like a doctor’s appointment or his mom asks him over lunch. In either case, he works around these minor obstructions, either starting the day a little earlier or ending it a little later.

It’s better this way. It took him a year or so of working from home to realize he needs the structure of a 9 to 5 type schedule if he wants to avoid becoming a hollow-eyed ghoul that works until 3 a.m. each morning. For the first year in this position, he had slept in and pushed out work until the last possible moment in each day. It sucked — he had started to lose touch with friends and forgotten what the sun felt like with his schedule turned inside out like that. But if he was being honest — the final straw was that he fell asleep one dawn in the middle of chewing the last bite of dinner (or was it breakfast?). He had woken up that evening with half-dissolved cement covering his gums and food in his hair.

That was in the past. Now, Bucky’s a new man.

It’s 2 p.m., there’s a gigantic mug of coffee on his side table, the sun’s streaming through the windows just so, and he’s cuddling with Bartleby, his sister’s Wirehaired Pointer. His laptop is on the coffee table in front of the couch they’re nestled on together. They’re about half-way through another episode of Terrace House, but Bucky lost the plot since the last check-in with the commentators. The heat that Bartleby’s generating is glorious against his aching shoulder, and he’s starting to slip into a liminal space between wakefulness and sleep — the soft tones of Taka and Shohei lulling him into a doze as he fails to follow the subtitles. He’s about ready to float away forever.

Bart’s with him because Becca’s away for the next few days for a conference. Bucky loves taking care of Bartleby, and he welcomes the dog into his apartment several times a year as Becca comes and goes for her job. It’s the perfect setup. He gets all of the short-term benefits of having a dog, like cuddling, with none of the long-term challenges, like remembering to pay for or give Bartleby his heartworm medication.

He finally closes his eyes when Bartleby shifts from his languid full-body blanket sprawl over Bucky.

“Eugh,” comes whooshing from somewhere deep in his belly when Bartleby’s bony elbow digs into Bucky’s chest just as his back leg ploughs right into his balls.

Bart’s off, nails tip-tapping against the hardwood as Bucky curls up like a scared pill bug on the couch, tears prickling his eyes. This is one of the short-term downsides of looking after Bartleby. He can be inconsiderate of Bucky’s personal bits when they’re in the way of walkies or liver treats.

When he opens his eyes, he sees Bart’s at the front door, looking back at Bucky expectantly. He scratches at the door and whines; he needs to go.

“Alright, alright,” Bucky groans, “Let me recover, Jesus.” And then he’s rolling off the couch and slouching over to the door.

Slinging a hat over his head, he slips into his fleeced-lined hoodie knowing the early fall air might be cool. He affixes the leash to Bart’s collar with a perfunctory click, gathering the leash in one hand. With the other, he snags his wallet and keys and then they’re out.

The sun is warm on what little of his skin is exposed; this is another short-term bonus of looking after Bartleby. He gets him out of the apartment on a day he would otherwise spend indoors. It’s nice to have the wind blow through the hair that escapes his cap and get the blood pumping through his legs — even if they only stroll through the streets, stopping occasionally for Bartleby to sniff at the curb.

It isn’t until they're on the way home that Bucky realizes his mistake. Bartleby stops walking and hunches, balancing on his hind legs as he starts to do his business. Bucky shoves his hand into his hoodie pocket to grab a bag. He pulls out two scrunched up receipts, a torn MTA card, and a hair tie. Shovelling his treasures back into his pocket, he switches hands with the leash to check his other pocket.

Empty. Uh. Hm. There’s a sinking feeling in stomach when he checks his jean pockets, then his hoodie pockets again and comes up with nothing. The bags must be sitting on his counter, forgotten. He’s usually so good about this, but the Terrace House daze and subsequent sacking threw him off his game.

Bucky looks at Bartleby, who staggers out of his squat. He stands at the end of his lead, staring out into the street. Bucky looks up and down the street. There’s no one around. He looks up at the windows of the building. He can’t see inside.

He looks again. There’s no garbage on the street that Bucky could use as a makeshift bag, and there’s no way in hell he’s touching poop with his bare hands — especially not his prosthetic, a high-tech Stark model with improved dexterity.

It’s just one little turd. What’s a turd on the sidewalk in the grand scheme of things? Bart and him will just never come back this way again.

He looks down and makes his decision. With one more surreptitious look up and down the street, Bucky tugs on Bart’s leash.

“C’mon, Bartlebop, we gotta hustle.”

~*~

Steve and Sam are walking down the street. They just got off the subway straight from their meeting in Midtown, and they're on their way to Steve's to celebrate. 

“I cannot believe how chill those clients were. If I were them, I’d’ve dumped our asses as soon as you were ten minutes late.” Sam shakes his, “You’re one lucky sunovabitch, you know that, right? They ate you up, all cornflower blue eyes and blonde hair, ‘I’m sorry ma’am’ and ‘I appreciate your patience, sir.’ You’re driving with me the next the cops pull me over, I swear to god. Right, Steve? Steve. Hey, Steve, are you even listening to me?”

“Oh my god,” Steve breathes, incensed, “Do you see that?”

“See what — the overgrown nerd who’s ignoring his, frankly, far more attractive friend?”

“That man!” Steve pulls Sam close towards into the stoop of the nearest building. Steve peeks around the brick to look over at his apartment building and aggressively jabs a pointy finger at the man standing next to a dog. “That. MAN.” He enunciates furiously.

“Ok—ay, and what about him?”

“It’s him! It’s the guy who keeps letting his dog shit everywhere.”

Sam’s eyes widen as he peers around the brick to catch a glimpse. The man in question stands awkwardly next to a dog that's just finishing up its business. The dog's pretty big. White hair streaks through a rather average dog body, but it's the face that takes Sam's attention. Even from their spot down the street, Sam can tell it has bushy eyebrows and a straggly beard that makes him look like an old prospector who's spent the last year panning for gold in them hills. 

Sam watches as the dog walks towards them, stopping only because it reaches the end of the leash. From their hiding spot, he watches the dog's wiry eyebrow twitch as it wags its tail. It's clear the jig is up, at least from the dog's point of view. Sam hunches closer to Steve. The dog might notice their huddled mass in a doorway, but the man seems to be oblivious, checking over his shoulder and looking up to the sky rather than the two of them. Sam would rather keep it that way. 

“That. Mother. Fucker. What do we do? Do we go over there? Do we say something? Do we shove his face into it and make him eat it?

“Whoa, what?” Steve turns back and pulls a face

“Too far,” Sam agrees, nodding though not entirely surprised by the depths of his own depravity.

Steve looks back at the man, who’s looking up and down the street suspiciously, “A little, yeah.”

“C’mon we gotta do something. That guy’s been leaving turds in front of your building for months. Too many of our conversations have revolved around this literal shit. Look at your shoes, man!”

Steve looks down at his shoes. They’re clean by now — he took the time to aggressively slide his one shoe along the pavement as he marched angrily all the way to the subway stairs. But it’s the principle of the thing. He’s been dodging dog shit, sometimes unsuccessfully, for months on end now. Everyone in his building has. His neighbour’s kid trailed a messy line of it up the stairs with her bike wheel. And it’s all because this jackoff can’t be bothered to clean up after his dog. Who does he think he is in his black baseball cap pulled low over hair curled around his ears and the softest looking hoodie? Steve narrows his eyes.

“We’re gonna follow him,” Steve grabs and Sam’s coat and pulls. They walk close along the buildings, half-crouching, half-walking.

“I don’t know about you, but this feels suspicious. I can't be out on the street looking suspicious,” Sam says after they’ve tagged behind the man for about half a block, “And what if he turns around?”

“You’re right. Act normal.”

They straighten and pull apart, taking unhurried steps as they keep a wide berth between them and the dog walker. They follow him on a zig-zagging trip through the neighbourhood before the asshole walks up a set of stairs to unlock the front door of an apartment building. They pull up by a mailbox and pretend to mail something as he and the dog slip through the door.

“Apartment 4a,” Steve says aloud, etching the number into memory forever.

“What now?”

“Now, I get my revenge.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I'd finish this in two chapters, but I was wrong. Thanks for reading!
> 
> CW: animal cruelty but not really. If this bothers you/for a better explanation, check the note at the bottom.

“You know, when you said revenge, I was expecting you were gonna mail this asshole a glitter fart bomb, not,” Sam says, waving his beer bottle over Steve’s Formica kitchen table airly, “hold an arts and crafts night.”

Sam stares down at the various craft supplies covering the table, surveying what turns out to be alarming amounts of feathers, sequins, and — oh, there is actually some glitter in the pile. It looks like someone shoved an entire Michael’s store into a snow globe, shook it up, and cracked the glass until the contents exploded out all over Steve’s apartment.

He picks up a small sponge roller from the artsy mass and rolls it against his arm, asking “Did you go out and buy all this?” as he turns to look at Steve.

Steve sniffs from his spot at his drafting table where it’s crammed under the biggest window in the living room. It faces the street and usually gets amazing light. Earlier, Steve had closed the thick blinds as soon as the sun began to set, so no one could see in. Now, he’s hunching his broad shoulders over a magnifying lamp, looking through the glass as he carefully pokes a tiny stick against a brown object. His eyes are wide, unblinking as he concentrates on his work.

“No,” Steve says without looking up, “it’s just what I’ve collected over the years.”

Sam crosses over the last of the kitchenette’s tiles and walks over the wooden floor of the living room. Steve’s apartment is an open concept one-bedroom, so it takes him all of three seconds. The floor creaks worryingly with each step he takes towards the drafting table.

“Huh,” Sam says, impressed.

Now that he’s up close, the brownish blob in Steve’s hand has coalesced into what’s obviously the beginnings of an adorable rabbit — its body round, fuzzy, and hunched as though it’s about to launch itself across the apartment. Two large ears spring up from a sloped head, their inner folds pink and vulnerable under the lamplight. Sam notes with some unease that Steve’s violently stabbing black fluff into what looks like the rabbit’s left eye. With each stab, he catches more of the fabric and pins it to the blank framework of the figure below.

Steve looks up briefly with a bright smile. “Needle felting.”

“Okay, I’m impressed. Seriously, you have talent, Steve. But, come on, how is a cute little bunny rabbit gonna teach this guy a lesson?”

“He has a Wirehaired Pointer.”

Sam purses his lips and raises his eyebrows in the universal sign for okay, so, what’s your point?

“At least, I’m pretty sure going by that beard. Could also be a Wirehaired Pointing Griffon. Either way, this dog has a high prey drive and a ton of energy,” Steve finally puts down his needle and looks up at Sam, “I mean, just more proof this guy is a total tool. Wirehaired Pointers should be out in the country where they can run around as much as they like, not walking around Brooklyn for five minutes a day.”

“Preaching to the choir.”

“Anyways, I read online they’ll chase anything . They also love to swim.”

Sam looks at the rabbit in his friend’s hands and smiles, says “Oh, you sly,” as he clinks his beer bottle against Steve’s. “Tell me how I can help.”

~*~

It’s Saturday morning, and Bucky is up earlier than he has been in a while. It’s Bartleby’s fault if he has to lay the blame, but that suggests he’s unhappy with the situation. 

Thanks to Bart, Bucky is up early enough to catch his favourite barista operating the walk-up window station when he orders his latte. Ben hangs out of the window at the sight of Bartleby’s tail wagging, scratching at Bart’s scraggly beard as he cooes the kind of nonsense that follows Bart wherever he goes. It's only when another person begins to line up behind Bucky that Ben drags himself back in to brew the espresso before handing the paper cup back to Bucky, saying “Have an extra shot. On me. Come visit me again, Bartleby!”

He breathes in a lungful of crisp autumn air and sighs into his takeout cup before taking a healthy swig of his cinnamon latte. It’s smooth, sweet with just a hint of spice and an underlying punch of caffeine. No, he can’t say he’s particularly upset about being up at all. From the café, they toddle along unhurriedly until Bartleby figures out where they're going. The realization strikes him like a lightning bolt to the tail, electrifying the usually swaying limb until it juts up in a firm, perpendicular line from his rump. With his nose to the ground, Bart drags Bucky the rest of the way to Prospect Park.

By the time they enter the park from the north-east side, they're moving through the trails at a decent clip, although Bucky can still sip his extra-shot cinnamon latte without risking a spill. Bartleby’s at the end of his lead, his nose parting the grass as he follows the scent of some animal or person who walked this way earlier.

Bucky plans to head south to complete a loop around the perimeter of the park with the intention to stop by the dog park and its off-leash beach before heading home. They’re just starting to bend around the lake at the south end with maybe another 30 minutes before they hit the off-leash section.

As they walk along the pathway, Bucky takes care that they don’t get too close to the lake. Once Bartleby catches sight of water, it’s like a switch flips in his brain and he’s convinced he’s part fish. He’ll sprint into it with a splash and doggy paddle around, occasionally diving under as he plays. Bucky’s fairly certain the lake, frequented by ducks and other waterfowl, isn’t meant for dogs, so he rather keep Bartleby unaware of a swimming opportunity until they reach the off-leash beach.

Visiting it is part of a tradition. They come every time Bucky has to look after Bartleby.

It’s their last day together before Becca’s back to pick him up, so Bucky plans to spend most of the morning in the park. It’s mostly for Bart’s benefit, but as he looks up to the clear blue sky, he has to admit he can’t complain. He’s a city guy through and through, but every once in a while Bucky likes to see something green to remind himself nature exists beyond the concrete of his neighbourhood. There’s plenty of green now, though some of the leaves on the trees have started to turn gold at the first signs of fall.

Bartleby stops to sniff something properly, so Bucky looks up at the trees. It’s because he’s admiring the turning colors that he doesn’t notice things are wrong until it’s too late.

Bartleby doesn’t just stand still when he’s in the park, surrounded by unfamiliar sights and smells to explore. Always on the move, he usually tries to inhale scents as he trots along. Now, he’s standing with his head up, slightly cocked, and ears forward — his body a whipcord of tension. Bucky follows his line of sight. There’s a rabbit frozen in terror in the middle of the path just up ahead.

Bartleby woofs a throaty bark and bounces on his paws as if saying, "Game on."

“Bartleby, no,” Bucky warns as he grips the end of the leash tight and locks up the muscles in legs, digging his heels into the dirt.

Bartleby claws into his front paws against the dirt just as the rabbit bursts into motion, zooming down the path.

For a split second, Bucky stands motionless. Then Bartleby yanks him so violently Bucky might have whiplash, a low grunt tugged from his chest as he’s slingshot down the path, scrambling to keep up as Bartleby lunges into an all-out gallop — hind legs curling under his rump to grip the dirt and propel him forward so his front paws can reach out and start it all again. Bucky, tethered to the leash in his fist, can only try to keep up. His latte sloshes over his hand as he drops it.

The cup’s long gone by the time Bucky finally gets his feet under him and starts pumping his legs in earnest. They’re already starting to burn as he sprints as quickly as he can to keep up. It’s still too slow for Bartleby, who’s dragging Bucky along as much as he’s charging after the rabbit.

“Stop!” Bucky manages to yell between gasps, his lungs now burning as well, “Bartleby, no, bad dog!”

Bartleby’s ears are closed to anything but the rabbit, every sense homed in on the creature running for its life. His paws strike the dirt like thunder. Bucky’s sneakers slap pitifully behind him.

They tear off down the trail, and Bucky’s sure he’s going to fall flat on his face. He’s going to lose his grip on the leash and Bartleby, finally free of a heavy human, will shoot off. Bart’s going to chase the rabbit out of the park and into the street, and Bucky’s going to have to explain to Becca how he killed her dog because he was too busy staring at trees to pay attention to a goddamn rabbit.

“Bartleby!”

It’s no use. He’s a predator on the loose.

The rabbit makes an abrupt turn down a small path and Bart nearly misses it altogether before he’s back on the trail, trundling after the terrified rabbit.

And then Bucky realizes how much worse it can get.

“No, no, no,” Bucky half-yells, half-chants, as the rabbit heads towards the lake. It dives straight into the water, surging at such a speed it skips along the surface a few times before bobbing to a halt.

Bartleby, hot on its heels, breaches the water a few seconds later. Bucky tries to let go of the leash, but his fist isn’t getting the message. Maybe there isn’t a message to send, his brain preoccupied with making his legs pumping straight into the muddy lake

He trips, face hitting the water with a splash as his knees scrape the rocks below.

Bartleby yanks the hand holding his leash forward, dragging him deeper into the water. He lands on his prosthetic, jamming it against his shoulder. Bucky inhales a mouthful of gritty water in shock.

Coughing, he lets go of the leash and watches in despair as Bartleby gains on the drifting rabbit with a frantic doggy paddle. He closes his eyes. The bunny had given it a good effort, but it’s going to die. Bucky doesn’t need to see Bartleby crush its tiny body between his jaws. He hangs his head, spitting out water.

He takes a deep breath. And then another. He’s going to have to look up eventually to try and wrangle Bartleby out of the lake. Bucky cracks open an eye and watches as Bartleby munches happily on the rabbit. His jaws snap up and down with a soft, squelching sound — which, Bucky really wishes he didn’t have to hear — but the rabbit’s surprisingly intact. Save for a new waterlogged look, it’s unfazed by Bartleby’s treatment. Its eyes aren’t even blinking. Bucky can only hope it died of shock when it hit the water.

“Bart,” Bucky says in resignation, “come here.”

With his prey finally in his mouth, Bartleby only too happily turns around and paddles to Bucky. His eyes are bright, and his tail bashes the water behind him. Look at me, he emotes. Look what I caught!

Bucky stands and a cascade of water flows from his body, splashing Bart who doesn’t seem to mind. Back on his feet, Bucky attempts to brush back his wet hair from where it’s stuck to his forehead and hisses. His palm is covered in scratches that are just starting to bead with blood. From the feel of them, his knees aren’t much better. He reaches down. There's a hole in his jean, and his knee feels hot to the touch.

Bucky sighs.

He fishes the leash out of the water and hobbles slowly towards the grassy shore. His feet squelch in his sneakers once he reaches solid ground. Bartleby splashes beside him, dropping the dead rabbit at his feet. He looks up at Bucky with an obvious look of pride while his entire body swings back and forth with the force of his wagging tail.

“Yep, you killed it, Bart. Good job,” Bucky says as flatly as the hair plastered to his head. He pats Bart. It’s not like he can get mad at him for doing what dogs do.

Steeling himself, Bucky finally looks at the rabbit. Up close, it’s not how he expects it would look. For one thing, it doesn't look like it just went a round between Bartleby's sharp teeth. No, there's something else; it doesn’t look like it has fur at all. Its body looks more like it’s covered in fuzzy felt.

Bucky crouches and pokes the rabbit along the spine with a finger. It's spongy like it doesn’t have any bones. Bartleby barks in excitement when Bucky picks it up and examines the sopping body. From the top, where Bucky’s holding the scruff of the rabbit, it looks like a drowned stuffed toy. Bucky cranes to look underneath it. Where there should be a soft belly and four limp legs, there an undercarriage of a toy car, two axles holding four wheels to the body. He's holding a Frankenstein creation of children's toys made all the more horrendous for having taken a dip in the lake. 

“What the hell?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a scene where Bartleby chases what Bucky thinks is a real rabbit. It isn't but eh, I'd rather be safe than sorry.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's lesson of the day:
> 
> When you ASSUME you make an ass out of you and me

Bucky startles awake to an alarm. It’s his phone chiming from where he left it plugged in on his bedside table from the day before. Even with his eyes closed he can tell his bedroom is awash in the early dawn light peeking through his blinds. Which means it’s morning. Which must mean he got a full night’s sleep. Even though he feels like garbage.

He pushes up on his stump, so he can swipe his phone off the bedside table — or, he tries to at least. He doesn’t do much more than shift his shoulder under the covers before he’s groaning, the joint loudly protesting the minor movement. He grabs it with his other hand, digs his fingers into the muscles surrounding the scapula, and hisses.

Fuck, it’s sore. The sharp pinch subsides into a dull, hot throb that radiates from his shoulder to what remains of his arm.

He opens crust-covered eyes to look balefully at his phone, still chirping its cheery tune at maximum volume. He changed it months back, thinking it would help him greet the day with, not quite a smile, but at least not the full-face crumple that he has now. At the time, he thought it would be better than the nasal bleat of a traditional alarm clock. But these months proved him wrong.

It’s worse.

Thump, thump, thump. His neighbour bangs on the wall they share. “What the fuck, man!”

“Yeah, yeah, give me a fucking second, Greg!” Bucky yells back, giving the wall a good smack with his good arm. He and Greg have a tenuous relationship as neighbours go, considering they share a bedroom wall and have heard more than they want from each other.

The sting in his palm is only a temporary distraction to the ache in his shoulder.

Cradling his bad arm, he raises himself up by degrees. He lurches upright like a vampire would rise out of its coffin if it was tranquilized with ketamine. Bucky releases his stump long enough to dismiss the singing alarm before he lowers himself back down to the bed just as slowly. Horizontal again, he pulls the blue flannel sheets over his head and sighs.

His and Bartleby’s unexpected dip into the pond really fucked him up.

He hadn’t realized it on their wet walk of shame back to his apartment. No, he was too worried about people noticing he resembled the creature from the blue lagoon, trailing muddy pond water all the way to his apartment. At the time, it had felt like he had banged it something awful — sure — but nothing serious. But each day it got a little worse, and a little worse, until yesterday, he took off his prosthetic half-way through the workday. Now, the pain is bad enough just the thought of hooking up the arm makes his stomach flip. Now, Bucky’s thinking about calling in sick.

He probably should go see his GP, too, but that would mean getting up. And sitting in a loud waiting room full of sick people. And talking to his doctor. And explaining what happened. All while he's in agony.

Maybe he’ll see how it is tomorrow. Okay, so yeah, he knows he’s being a big baby, but going to the doctor sucks. It’s not like she can give him a new arm or anything. It's probably nothing, anyway. He promises himself he'll go if it doesn't get any better by tomorrow. Probably.

After a few minutes spent hiding under his sheet, Bucky shuffles to the bathroom to swallow some of his serious pain meds. On his way back to bed, he makes a pit stop in the kitchen to wrestle open a box of Cheerios, so he has something on his stomach. A few pieces ping off the counter when he shovels a handful into his mouth. He wipes his hand on his shirt before he shoves his heat bag in the microwave. Once it dings, he sinks back into bed, moaning quietly as he drapes the bag around his arm. The skin immediately blooms an angry pink under the heat. It’s a little too hot, but it feels good.

He sends off a quick email to his boss, explaining how he’s done something to his arm without going into the embarrassing details.

By then, the pain meds kick in for real and the morning just sort of slips away. He only blinks awake when his phone vibrates off his side table. The clatter is loud enough to jolt him from a dreamless sleep.

Groaning, he lifts his phone up by dragging the charging cord up the side of the bed. He squints at the bright screen. It's almost noon, so he's been asleep for five hours. 

Tapping into his messages, he sees it’s his sister:  
  
Becca: Omg you idiot

He frowns. He doesn’t think he’s done anything.

Bucky: Uhh

Bucky: ??

Becca: THE VIDOE

Becca: VIDEO!!

Bucky: I don’t know what you’re talking about

Becca: http://y2u.be/ouv_ixT8mZ8

Becca: 950k views

Becca: 😂 😂 😂 😂

Bucky taps open the link and gets redirected to a YouTube called “Funny dog takes man for a swim”. He clenches his phone tightly as his heart skips a beat. He gingerly taps the request to fill out a survey and chooses an answer, afraid of what he'll see.

The video starts playing. It’s shaky, grainy footage of a wooded area near the pond in Prospect Park. His stomach plummets. Off screen, someone’s shrieking the word no over and over again. He knows it's him, even though he can barely recognize the hysterical warble. 

At the edge of the frame, a small bunny bursts from the trees. Quickly on its heels, Bartleby gallops over a fallen tree branch. Not a second later, Bucky launches through the brush, pulled by the leash in his fist. Even from the terrible angle, Bucky recognizes the utter terror on his face as he rockets after the dog and straight into the pond, where he falls face first into the water.

He can tell exactly when he wrenches his shoulder and winces. The video stays on him long enough to capture him hanging his head dejectedly while Bart doggy paddles towards his prize. The footage freezes on Bucky as he coughs out a mouthful of water, then the screen goes black. 

Bucky stares vacantly at the screen as it recommends other hilarious dog clips. He can't believe it. Someone recorded him and posted it. Someone made that toy bunny to lure animals or people into the water, and Bucky just so happened to be the first one. Why, Bucky doesn't understand. So they could make an America's Funniest Videos reject tape?

His brain sort of hurts, but it could be the drugs. His phone vibrates, and vibrates, and vibrates. It’s Becca

Becca: This has made my year

Becca: My life!

Becca: I sent it to mom and dad

Becca: Screenshot and saved

Becca: Buck?

Becca: ???

Becca: Did you die of embarrassment?

If only. Bucky drops the phone and grabs his hair, groaning miserably. He casts his mind back to the day in question. He tries to think whether he saw anyone watching his unfortunate swim, but he can't remember. Whatever he remembers, obviously some jackhole was there and managed to record it all. Pressure builds behind his rib cage, making his chest feel hot and tight. So many people have seen this. He picks up his phone again and what he sees makes his stomach twist: 953,512 views. A full body flush sears through his body. That’s.... That’s a lot of people. That’s like a third of Brooklyn. 

He starts to sweat at the realization people he _knows_ will see it. It's suddenly humid under his covers and his armpits feel damp. His cheeks burn hot enough they could probably power his laptop during a full work day. He’s blushing so hard, the tips of his hair are probably warm to the touch. Fuck. He pulls the sheets over his head for the second time that day, wishing his bed would swallow him whole.

Becca’s never going to let him live this down.

This day sucks. 

~*~

Turns out he has some minor tears in the infraspinatus and subscapularis muscles, or the muscles that make up part of his rotator cuff. This isn't news. There's always going to be some trauma there, but his recent swim didn't do anything to help matters. Luckily, his doctor doesn't think it's bad enough to warrant surgery. Instead, she reminds him to keep up with his physiotherapy and suggests making another appointment with Derek, his physiotherapist. She also mentions to Bucky he should book a follow up appointment in two weeks if nothing gets better. 

Before she sends him out the door, she writes him a new prescription for some familiar pills. He goes to the drug store to get a mixture of anti-inflammatories and codeine: two old friends. A harried pharmacist greets him and tells him it will be an hour wait and that, if he wants, he can leave his number, so they can call him once it's ready.

So that's how Bucky finds himself in a nearby coffee shop, sitting at the bar with a cinnamon latte. He's tooling around on his phone when he hears the front door chime, and two loud voices enter the cafe. Through his lashes, he watches as two men stand in line. One's white, tall, and blond, and the other's black, almost as tall, and has a close shave. Both are wearing work clothes stained in sweat, but they don't look tired. They look like they're still bursting with energy, and it's leaking out in the way they elbow each other and laugh. 

The white one has the shoulder-to-waist ratio of a Greek god, and his stomach turns into a slip of thing when the man turns to face the barista and order. Bucky's eyes naturally follow the curve of his back to the pert butt clothed in tight jogging shorts. It's like he's purposefully choosing to stand to give the best view, and what a view it is. Bucky zones out as the man orders a coffee for himself and his friend, not really listening. He startles back to attention when he catches an older woman's eyes on the other side of the cafe. He hides behind his phone to pretend he isn't a huge perv, even though she only caught his eye because she was ogling the same man from the opposite angle.

With his eyes glued to his screen, he zeros in on what they're saying to each other. 

“Almost a million views. Damn, do you know how much that would’ve gotten you?”

The blond guy sighs. “No, Sam.”

“You’d be doing alright, trust me. My friend Taylor said she got $3,000 once from her video, and she got nowhere near a million.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, man, I feel cheated.”

The blond guy laughs. “Wait a minute, who says I’d’ve shared the money?”

Sam glares at him. “Steve, come on. Who reminded you to wear green, so you wouldn’t stick out like a giant nerd in the middle of the park? This guy. Who helped you find a remote-control car for that rabbit? This. Guy. Steve!”

Bucky freezes and his eyes go wide. A video with almost a million viewers and a remote-control rabbit. This can't be a coincidence. His brows naturally crumple around his deep-set eyes and his mouth reacts unbidden in a severe downward curve. It happens anytime he's focused, but it takes on an especially unhinged look when he's this angry. With his hair frizzing away in its bun, Bucky knows he looks like some ancient bog monster who rolled out of the swamp fifteen minutes late with a Starbucks and who's finally ready to hex someone. 

He slowly swivels his head on his neck until he's looking outright at the two men ambling towards him. At the men who could be his tormentors. 

“I don’t even care, Sam. I don’t need to be paid. This was just icing on the cake. My sweet, just desserrrr—” Steve trails off. He pulls up short as his eyes lock onto Bucky. There’s recognition there and a dawning look of horror. Sam stops, shoulder to shoulder with Steve and finally looks at Bucky.

“Oh shit,” Sam says.

Both of their mouths hang open in a slack-jawed look of shock, and Bucky's body flushes hot so quickly he's cold. So he's right. This golden Adonis is the reason why he's waiting on a multitude of pills. These are the men who pranked him. He's going to kill them.

“You,” Bucky croaks through clenched teeth, eyes the kind of wide that shows all the whites of his eyes. The lid of his coffee cup pops off in a splash of hot, flavoured milk. He doesn’t even flinch as he bends the cardboard and coats his entire hand with latte.

“Uhhh,” Steve briefly looks down to the cup, then his eyes trail up to where the left arm of his plaid shirt is pinned up. Bucky's furious. He doesn't usually care about whether he's got the arm on or not, but sometimes he can't help but be hyper-aware of how people see him. He's been on the end of that look one too many times from well-meaning people and assholes alike. They see the arm and suddenly think he's helpless. Or worse, an idiot, and they start talking to him like he lost twice as many IQ points as the arm weighed.

Well, he’d like to be wearing his prosthetic, but his shoulder’s still too stiff thanks to this jerk. But he will not be made to feel like some kind of freak by this man. He's the victim here. If anyone should be made to feel bad it's this blond bimbo Steve — which gives Bucky an idea once his brain blinks back online and he gets past his initial shock.

“Like what you see, huh? You the one who set up the rabbit, so my dog chased it? Well thanks to you, I lost my goddamn arm.”

“What?” They say in near unison, voices suspiciously high-pitched. Steve and Sam look at each quickly before turning back to Bucky. Their dumbstruck faces only eggs him on further.

“You know how dirty Prospect Park is, asshole? Cut my arm on a jagged piece of metal. I got sepsis, and they had to amputate!” Technically, it's the truth. He did lose the arm to sepsis. The only lie there is that it happened years ago, and not anywhere near Brooklyn. 

“Oh my god.” Sam says, looking a little sallow. He grabs the bar for support. But Steve just looks confused, his eyebrows and big nose scrunching up to meet in the middle of his face like he smelled a Brooklyn trash can in the middle of an August heatwave. He crosses him meaty arms across his broad chest. Bucky can't help but notice it shows off a pecs that won't quit and massive biceps that could easily choke him out.

“How are you not in the hospital? It’s been like four days.”

“I heal quick, okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, “I call fucking foul, buddy. You don’t just bounce back from septic shock.”

Bucky blinks. That is accurate. He nearly died from the infection when he actually did lose his arm. And he spent weeks delirious in a hospital bed because of it. The doctors thought he wasn't going to make it, but Bucky somehow pulled through to the surprise of the ICU. 

Bucky shakes his head. This isn't how people usually behave when he talks about his arm. While some ask too many questions about it for reasons Bucky can only assume is a kink (he never sticks around long enough to find out), most usually nod politely and change the subject. Especially when he accuses them of being the reason why he lost it. Or, at least, he assumes that's what most sane people would do. He’s actually never done this before.

“Oh, you want to talk about fouls, pal? You were the one set this all up,” Bucky says, as he waves his hand to illustrate his point. He watches with some satisfaction as a drop of latte flies of his hand and hits Steve shirt. "Why?" 

“Why do you think? Because of all the dog shit you’re leaving around Brooklyn!”

Bucky gapes. What. What? 

“What?”   
  
“The dog shit. You refuse. To pick up.” Steve enunciates loudly.

Sam nods his head beside him. "What's your problem, man?"

"Wait, this wasn't just some random prank?" Bucky asks, knowing full well his voice is airing on hysterical, "You planned this?"

“Hey, guys?”

All three of them turn to look at the young barista behind the counter. He has a streak of blue through his dark hair and a lip ring. His name tag says Luke. He looks impossibly tired.

Luke grimaces as he looks between them. “I’m going to have to ask you take this outside. You’re scaring the other customers.”

Bucky looks to the old woman from earlier who's still sitting in the back of café. She diverts her eyes and hides a smirk behind her mug. Yeah fucking right.

“If these assholes abduct me out on the sidewalk, I'm going to give you one star,” Bucky says as he pushes off his seat and heads for the door. He doesn’t stop walking once he’s through the door. He doesn't like the odds of two against one in the middle of the street, so he books it. He angles his head against the wind and starts to walk down the street at a decent clip. 

“Hey!” He hears before an arm grabs his good elbow and sends him spiraling backwards.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” He roars, wobbling to get his balance. He hates it when people manhandle him.

He turns to face them, preparing for a fight because he won't go down swinging. They take up most of the sidewalk, almost six hundred pounds jamming up the works like a bunch of bozos. A woman walking next to him yells nope loudly and immediately crosses the street. The rest of the people on the sidewalk give them a wide berth and pretend they don't exist. They're pretty good at acting like this happens everyday.

Steve lifts his hands in the universal sign for "I come in peace" but his face says he's prepared to go into battle. His friend must notice Steve's about to do something stupid because he throws a hand out at Steve's chest.

“Alright, how about everybody calms down,” Sam says. "Y'all are causing a scene."

“Calm down?" Bucky asks, then "A scene?" Because he can't decide which is one is more stupid. "You’re the ones who dragged me into a pond. Why I’m a viral video sensation!”

“And why you don’t have a left arm?” Steve sneers.

Bucky startles a bit. Right, he forgot about that.

“Uh, yeah. And why I’m an amputee,” he says with a little less heat. He wiggles his bad shoulder. Shit, he shouldn't have done that. He makes an aborted move to grab his torn bicep but stops himself. He's not going to look even more pathetic in front of these jerks.

Steve scoffs but his brows furrow when he notices Bucky wince. 

Bucky deflates, suddenly tired. He's not wearing his prosthetic because his shoulder still hurts. He just wasted an expensive latte. And he’s still the laughing stock of his family thanks to that video.

“Just, why did you do it?” He asks, plaintively.

“I already told you. Because you won’t pick up after your dog.”

“What, you mean last week? That was one time!” Bucky throws his arm wide, nearly hitting a man on his phone in the face. The man neatly sidesteps his hand without looking up from his screen. Bucky barely wastes the breath on an apology.

“Yeah, of literal thousands. You’re the reason why my stairwell still smells.”

Bucky shakes his head. “That’s impossible.”

“We saw you leave it.”

“Okay," Sam says slowly, "let’s slow our rolls here. Why would it be impossible?”

“Because that’s not even my dog. It’s my sister's. I was just looking after him for the week.”

Steve’s face falls. He looks confused. Yeah, well you and me both, Bucky thinks.

“Your sister's… But you look after him a lot. Like every month?”

“No!” Bucky yells, fed up that they aren't listening to him. It looks like the brawn doesn't have a brain. "Look, I'm sorry I didn't have a bag with me that _one_ time, but what the fuck! Who are you? Neighbourhood turd watch? Why are you doing this?"

"Okay, well," Steve clears his throat. He looks like he's about a second away from actually scuffing his shoes against the cement. "Apology accepted. And uh, I'm sorry, too, for. You know. It was an honest mistake."

An honest mistake? An honest mistake is forgetting to cc someone in on a work email. It's taking someone else's cinnamon latte from the barista before your own. Hell, it's forgetting to pack a bag when you take a dog for a walk. It's not devising some nefarious and frankly complex plan to half-drown a man in a pond.

“Are you fucking serious? You dragged me through dirty water, let me think Bart murdered an innocent bunny, and become the punch line to YouTube — wait," Bucky stops his diatribe, puzzled. "How did you even find me in the park?”

“Uhhh,” Steve rubs the back of his neck, “that’s really not important.”

"Yes," Bucky hisses, as he takes a step into Steve's space. He jabs a finger into his chest. It's rock solid. "Yes, it really is."

"We sorta... followed you home. And waited until—"

"Oh my god," Bucky interrupts because he doesn't want to hear it. Nothing good can come after a stranger says 'we followed you home'. 

"You waited," Bucky repeats to himself, shaking his head in disbelief. "You. You're a maniac! A maniac who knows where I live. Oh my god."

"No! Sam and me — we're normal. There's nothing to be afraid of," Steve says earnestly, gesturing between him and Sam, but Bucky's already backing up. He's gotta get out of here before he's actually kidnapped. "Sam, tell him."

"That's a lost cause," Sam says, pursing his lips as he eyes Bucky's retreat. 

"I'm leaving. And whatever you do," Bucky warns, "do not follow me home."

He turns his back on them and makes his way down the street. He doesn't start running but he's walking fast enough that his legs hurt.

He gets half-way down the block before he starts to freak out for real. He reminds himself of all the Tinder hook-ups who know where he lives and who have yet to murder him in his sleep. If they didn't kill him, then Steve and Sam probably won't either, right? He just needs to put enough space between them. He'll pick up his pills and make a detour to the hardware store, so he can install five thousand deadbolts on his door.

It's totally fine. He's fine. It's fine. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do you have that person in your life? They didn't exist until one day you notice them. Then they're EVERYWHERE.

“Shit," Steve curses. "Fuck.” 

Steve stands in the middle of the sidewalk squinting after Dog Guy as he makes his retreat. Steve doesn't blame him for wanting to get as far away as possible. Steve wishes he could leave, too. He knows he didn't come across as the most stable human being there. He's definitely every bit the maniac that follows people home and tracks them through the park. 

Now would be a great time for a sink hole to open up and swallow him whole. Then he wouldn't have to deal with this colossal fuck-up. Or how his stomach spasms as if he just got sucker punched. He wants to throw up into the curb-side trash can and eject this miserable feeling immediately. If only he could delete this whole thing as easily.

Steve's aware he makes some pretty bad decisions sometimes. Sam makes sure to remind him almost every time he does. But this time? This time he's outdone himself. His cyclone of poor life choices isn't just affecting him anymore. It's sucking in unsuspecting strangers and whirling them around in the blender that is Steve's life before hurling them back out, rumpled and, apparently, missing an arm. 

Steve has to be Brooklyn's biggest idiot. 

“Yup,” Sam agrees with a pop. He looks as stunned as Steve feels as he stares down the street in a daze, so there's that. “Wow.”

“We fucked up.”

Sam finally blinks and turns an incredulous look at Steve. “We? Nah, this is a you problem.”

Steve swivels his head to glare. Steve's hardly the only one to blame here. Sam provided the most important part of the whole prank: the remote-control car. Without that or his coaching in Prospect Park, they wouldn't even be here. Even so, Steve isn't totally surprised Sam wants to shirk any responsibility. Steve wishes he could as well. Besides, this isn't the first time Sam pleads the fifth.

Sam likes to think he doesn’t ride shotgun along with every one of Steve's lapses in good judgement. But he’s there, usually acting as navigator and playlist DJ. The annoying part is Sam gets out of the car in this analogy without a single eyebrow hair out of place. Meanwhile, Steve tumbles out of the driver's seat badly concussed after the airbag shatters his nose. Steve's only a tiny bit jealous. Mostly, he's just glad he has someone he can rely on to apply a clean bandage when shit hits the fan.

Sam finally wilts under the look and grimaces. “Alright, alright. We fucked up. But it was your idea to begin with.”

Steve nods. He’ll admit that. It is his ludicrous need for revenge that started it. Without this, they'd still be in the café enjoying a coffee. Actually, they'd probably have totally different lives. For a moment, Steve wonders what life would be like if he knew how to bite his tongue and think through his actions. He shakes his head. His nose would probably be a little straighter, having not been broken when he was a kid. But otherwise, he can't imagine it. 

“I’m a terrible person.”

“Well, think of it this way,” Sam claps his shoulder and chuckles humourlessly, “At least we’ll probably never see him again.”

And because Steve's the biggest idiot in Brooklyn, he believes him. 

~*~

All Steve wants to do is put this whole thing behind him. He's not proud of his actions, but he can't dwell on it forever. So he throws himself into his work and gets Sam to swear on his life he'll never tell anyone what they did. Ever. It helps that work picks up over the next couple of weeks. He and Sam are so busy getting design proposals together he almost forgets about it entirely, if he lets himself.

It's going well until he decides to grab a couple of slices of pizza on his way home from a meeting. His route takes him by Jonnie's. It's the closest pizza place near his apartment. And, luckily for Steve, Jonnie also happens to make the best pizza in Brooklyn. A bell chimes when he pushes through the door and into a wall of heat. It's about 10 degrees hotter inside the small restaurant, which is just big enough to fit a few tables along one side of a white-tiled wall and a counter at the back. Jonnie waves a hand in greeting from the ovens, bald head gleaming from the heat. He's busy taking an order over the phone while another employee is retrieving a pie from the oven. Steve’s stomach gurgles at the delicious smell. 

The parlour is almost empty. A man with messy hair under a baseball cap and hoodie sits alone at one of the tables, facing the counter.

Steve walks past the tables and wastes no time ordering two pepperoni slices. He turns to lean against the counter while Jonnie puts them in the oven, looking around and reading the same posters he's read a million times. Curiosity gets the better of him as Steve looks over to the only other customer in the place and freezes. 

It's Dog Guy, chewing on a slice. A metal forearm glints under the harsh overheading lighting, peeking out from where he has his black hoodie rolled to his elbows. The segmented fingers of the prosthetic hold a gnawed crust half-way to his mouth. Steve has never seen anything like it before. He must've paid a fortune for it.

Dog Guy perks up when he finally catches Steve staring. He sits there hunched over his paper plate, eyes wide and greasy mouth filled with pizza. His eyebrows disappear into a severe ledge that makes him look deranged and confused at the same time. 

"You." He garbles through pizza. Steve's pretty sure that's what he means to say. 

Steve grits his teeth, smiling awkwardly, and agrees. "Me."

There's a brief pause where neither of them move. Steve realizes this is his shot to make amends and takes a deep breath. He can do this. It's the right thing to do.

"Look," he says, grabbing the chair on the opposite side of Dog Guy's table. It scrapes noisily along the tiles. Steve plunks down and crosses his arms, but he sort of runs out of steam when he meets his eyes. His very blue eyes. 

Steve blinks owlishly. Not right now. And besides, brown, green, blue — what does it matter? It doesn't. At all. So Steve does what's he good at and plows ahead.

"I owe you an apology." 

If anything, Dog Guy looks even more alarmed. Steve’s apology startles him out of whatever daze he's under. He shoves the last of his crust into his mouth, cheeks ballooning out as if he's a chipmunk who plans to hoard as much cheese and dough as he can before the winter hits. For a second, Steve worries he's going to choke but then his jaws start working mechanically. Steve watches as he chews hurriedly around what looks like a painful amount of pizza while he stares determinedly at the table between them.

"I'm really sorry." It comes out sharp. He's trying to apologize, but this guy is making it hard for Steve to be nice. All that follows is the wet sounds coming from Dog Guy's mouth. At least, Steve thinks, he chews with his mouth closed.

Dog Guy finally swallows with a grimace. He wipes his face with paper napkin before collecting it along with his plate.

"We're not doing this." His voice still thick with cheese. He stands and shoves his garbage into the trash on his way to the door. It chimes as he makes his exit. Steve drops his head to the table with a thunk. 

"Steve, I got your pepperoni," Jonnie calls from the cash. 

Steve lifts his head so quickly he gets vertigo. "Thanks, Jonnie." 

~*~

He brushes it off as a coincidence. Jonnie's is the best pizza in all of Brooklyn, so it only makes sense Dog Guy would go there eventually if he had any pizza-loving sense. Besides, Steve remembers sheepishly, Dog Guy lives close enough that Jonnie's technically his local pizzeria, too.

Well, Dog Guy's just going to have to deal with it, Steve thinks spitefully. There's no way Steve's willing to boycott Jonnie's just to avoid another awkward encounter. If Dog Guy won't accept his apology that's Dog Guy's problem.

Except, it becomes clear they have joint-custody of the problem.

Steve starts to think he's done something to anger someone or something — beyond the usual suspects, of course. For having never seen Dog Guy since a few weeks ago, he's become a regular fixture in his life now. God, the universe, or whatever mechanism of fate that's in charge of punishing Steve keeps putting Dog Guy in Steve's way.

One day, Steve walks down the sidewalk and spots Dog Guy crossing the street to avoid him. The next day, Dog Guy changes subway cars when they realize they're sitting across from each other.

And that doesn't even count all the times Steve sees Dog Guy without Dog Guy realizing it. Steve spies Dog Guy getting into a cab when he’s in the Lower East Side. Steve's at a café back in Brooklyn, sitting by the window, and Steve looks up just in time to see Dog Guy walk by with a friend. He watches Dog Guy zoom by on a bike, narrowly evading a car that pulls out in front of him and flipping off the driver with a hurled curse over his shoulder.

It gets to the point where Steve no long bristles with the expectation of a fight when he sees Dog Guy. Dog Guy is woven into the fabric of Steve's Brooklyn, so it’s like being surprised by a blue thread in his blue shirt. Steve accepts that now — just as he accepts Dog Guy will never give him a chance to apologize.

Not that Steve cares.

~*~

Steve finally gets to a point at work where he doesn't have to pull 14-hour days or bust ass across Manhattan with Sam as they meet with client after client after client. He plans to have a low-key evening at home before he realizes most of the food in his fridge has gone off. With a sigh, he slips into his sneakers and makes his way to the nearest grocery store. 

The automatic doors open for Steve in a quiet whoosh. They left forth a blast of air condition despite the time of year, and he shivers as he walks further in, bypassing the carts and baskets. He doesn’t need either one because he only plans to grab a few things. He'll do a bigger shop when he isn't so tired. For today, he’ll be able to carry everything straight to the cashier.

But then he sees coffee’s on sale and so are green peppers and Pringles. Next thing he knows, he’s zig-zagging through the grocery store and grabbing more than just the bare essentials he came for. He balances a box of discounted granola bars in the crook of his elbow. He holds his breath for a moment, relieved when nothing falls from his pile. He digs his chin over a pack of crackers and tortillas and hugs everything towards his chest. He has a loaf of bread and a bag of apples pinched between the fingers of his right hand.

There’s no way he can grab one more thing without something falling, so he calls it quits and get into line behind a couple. They both have long, dark hair coiled in a bun, and they’re wearing matching plaid tops and skinny jeans. They have their backs to him as they unload their baskets.

He shifts on his feet and feels something loosen. He clenches every muscle to prevent a can of beans from leaping out of his grip, but in doing so, he drops the apples with a thunk. One rolls out of the bag and hits the shoe of the man in front of him.

The woman looks over her shoulder at the sound as the man moves to pick up the apple. Steve’s about to apologize when he looks at the guy properly. It’s Dog Guy. Because of course it is. 

Dog Guy freezes as he recognizes who Steve is. He sighs, defeated, and hangs his head, leaving the apple on the ground. “How does this keep happening?”

The woman next to him looks bemused, then smiles and nods at the cashier who starts scanning their items.

“We live pretty close,” Steve replies with a shrug, “I’m surprised it hasn’t happened yet, to be honest.”

Dog Guy sneers, a dark look passing over his face as he’s reminded Steve knows where he lives. Steve didn't mean to do that.

Steve looks to the only other cashier open. If he kicks his bag of apples over to the next line, he can escape Dog Guy and his girlfriend and pretend this didn’t happen.

He shifts his weight carefully to make sure his load will stay safe when he steps out of line. It must emit a distress signal because the cashier at the other checkout counter looks up and stares directly at him. She slams a ‘Please use next cashier’ sign on her conveyor belt with some finality and goes back to scanning the remaining items in front of her.

“Damnit,” Steve whispers, closing his eyes briefly. This is his life. He’s stuck here now. For a brief moment, he considers how freeing it would be to just leave his stuff in a pile on the floor where he stands and walk out the door.

He crushes his groceries closer to his chest. This is ridiculous. He needs beans and tortillas for tonight’s dinner. He shouldn't flee just because this jerk can't accept an apology. 

“Here are your apples.” A warm, unfamiliar voice breaks through his brief self-pity party.

Steve opens his eyes to Dog Guy’s girlfriend holding his apples. She smiles and makes room for them on the conveyor belt. 

“Oh,” Steve stammers, “thanks. You didn’t have to—”

“Yeah, you really didn’t have to.” Dog Guy says with a sullen glare. He turns back towards the cashier.

His girlfriend frowns and eyes Dog Guy. She persists with a charming smile, nodding to his armful. “I’ve been there before. Didn’t think you needed a basket and then — Bam! — you have enough stuff to fill a cart. I usually get a cart though.” She eyes his biceps.

Steve smiles politely, feeling awkward at how nice she’s being when Dog Guy is a total tool. “It kinda got away from me.”

Dog Guy huffs, rolling his eyes. “How surprising.”

“Do you know each other?” Dog Guy’s girlfriend finally asks, giving Dog Guy a questioning look.

“No,” Dog Guy says at the same time Steve says: "Yes."

They stare at each other briefly in exasperation before looking away.

“Okayyyy. Well, sounds like one of you is confused.”

“If anyone’s confused, it’s Steve. He’s got problems, Becca. Leave him alone.”

“Look, I said I was sorry,” Steve says, tepidly. His name coming out of Dog Guy's mouth is a bucket of cold water that extinguishes any heat in his words. He wants to be angry that Dog Guy is still holding this over his head. He is angry. But he's also distracted now by the fact Dog Guy remembers his name. Steve bites his lower lip. There's absolutely no reason why he should feel pleased to hear his name. Dog Guy probably just has a good memory when it comes to people he would rather spit on than accept an apology from. 

“ _Sorry_? Bucky, what’s going on?” Becca asks, now examining Steve with a sharp look.

Steve blinks. Bucky sounds more like a knock-off brand of gum Steve would find on the shelves of a dark and dusty dollar store — not a grown man’s name. Yet, somehow, it suits him. Dog Guy looks like a Bucky.

“Nothing. It’s fine, Becks, don’t worry about it.”

As if all the eye rolling and dramatic huffing and puffing over the last few weeks is nothing. If Bucky thinks he can make this passive-aggressive scene and not have Steve say something, well, he has a surprise in store.

“Bucky's just mad I'm the reason he's YouTube famous,” he says with a grin. He looks at Bucky, daring him to do something about it. 

Becca’s eyes go wide. “Holy shit.”

Steve waits for Becca to stick up for her boyfriend, but she just giggles. A look of glee washes over her faces before she realizes what she's done and slaps a hand over her mouth. 

“Yeah, laugh it up,” Bucky says, looking unsurprised by her reaction, before turning to the cashier. “Hi. Yeah, could I, uh, get two bags please?”

Steve blinks. “You’re not… mad?”

“Mad?” Becca laughs again. “Holy hell, am I ever. You really fucked up Bucky’s arm. But I am also incredibly thankful for that video. It was amazing.”

Steve frowns, confused. He watches as red colours the pits of Bucky’s cheeks. Steve looks at Bucky's prosthetic covered by his plaid shirt. A flash of dread burning in his chest. Shit, he didn't actually lose his arm in the lake, did he? 

“If you ever hurt my brother again, you’re not going to like what I’ll do.”

Steve stops up short. Now that Steve really looks, it’s clear they’re related. They share the same glacier blue eyes, and they both have square faces with a slight divot in their chins. They even have the same fashion sense and hairstyle. How did he not pick up on that? 

“Becca,” Bucky whisper-hisses, clearly embarrassed. Then to the cashier: “I’ll pay with credit, thanks.”

“I’m serious. I don’t care how many muscles you have.” Becca glares, crunching her brows together into a familiar ledge of disdain. Bucky’s directed something similar at him all over Brooklyn. But there’s something different in her eyes that makes Steve want to take a step back, despite the fact he has at least 6 inches and 80 pounds on her.

“I,” Steve falters, caught between the need to explain himself to Becca and ask about Bucky’s arm, “I apologized. Are... you okay?” He directs his question to Bucky.

“Yep,” Bucky says, mouth thin and eyebrows high. He doesn’t look at Steve, clearly over this conversation. He’s chucking the last of his groceries into a plastic bag without any attempt at organization. Steve wonders at his prosthetic. He watches Bucky pick up an individual garlic head and curl it deftly into his palm before picking up the next head. He collects five garlic heads this way before he tosses them into his waiting plastic bag. The silver prosthetic loops through the bag handles, and Bucky steps away from the cash register.

“Anyways, we’re leaving now. I’m sure I’ll see you soon because my life is hell.” He tosses over his shoulder, heading towards the door without waiting for Becca.

That leaves Steve to look awkwardly at Becca.

“I didn’t — he didn’t actually lose his arm in the pond?” He mostly knows the answer to this, but he can’t help but feel like he has to ask.

The question surprises Becca. She laughs. “Did he tell you that?”

Steve nods.

“No,” Becca shakes her head, “But he did pull something when he fell.”

She crosses his arms and peers up him. Steve's immediately on edge, exposed in a way he hasn't felt in a long while. He hugs his groceries closes to his chest. The plastic squeaks pathetically. 

“Look, Steve. You’re cute, so you probably get away with a ton of shit all the time. But don’t think you can mess with my brother or my dog again.”

“I’ve said I was sorry like a million times now.” He says dismissively, like it's not his problem, then stops himself when he realizes he's taking his anger out on her. This isn't helping anything, so forces himself to say: “I screwed up. It was a mistake. I keep running into your brother like this, but he won't listen to me. I don't know what to do." 

“I don't know." She shrugs, "Kinda sounds like a you problem, but actions usually speak louder than words, Steve.” 

He watches her walk through the sliding doors and disappear out into the street. 

“Hey, can we keep this moving, buddy?” A guy behind Steve says, pointing at the now empty conveyor belt. The cashier watches Steve silently, clearly having listened to his entire conversation and still bored.

“Ya, sorry, of course.” Steve drops his armful unceremoniously on the belt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your support! I appreciate each and every kudos and comment :)


End file.
